Killing Spiders
by AdventurousMind
Summary: Rose, working for Torchwood in Pete's World, pulls Sherlock off a case. Sherlock, however, doesn't really like being pulled from cases. And how does the Vitex heiress have the authority to pull him off anyway?
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: Welcome to a new story! This is the first of two chapters. This chapter takes place shortly before the start of my other story, following Rose, and between seasons one and two of Sherlock._

** Disclaimer: Not mine, don't own. **

"Well, Detective Inspector, I think that's everything we need. Thanks for the help." Rose said, shaking the hand of the salt-and-pepper haired man over his desk.

Lestrade snorted. "I didn't exactly have a choice turning my case over to you, did I?"

Rose smiled. "No, but I think it will make your life a good deal easier. We deal with this sort of thing all the time."

Despite his gruffness, Rose liked DI Lestrade. He was honest and humble, and, like her, completely devoted to his work. It was that devotion that made him reticent to turn his case over to her, especially since he wasn't entirely certain who she worked for.

Lestrade froze- then ran a hand over his face. He groaned. "I may have made your work harder."

"What do you mean?" Mickey asked. He stood at the corner of Lestrade's desk holding a stack of paperwork, all the files the man had on the current case.

"Sometimes," Lestrade began slowly, "I contract with a civilian on weird cases like these. A consulting detective. You may have heard of him, he's getting well-known. Sherlock Holmes. And, well, he doesn't like being taken off cases."

Mickey and Rose exchanged a look. A giant grin crept over Rose's face.

"No way." Mickey said.

"I know!" Rose replied with glee, much the same way she and the Doctor had exclaimed over the werewolf in Scotland.

Lestrade glanced between the two of them, confusion evident on his craggy features. "So you've heard of him, then? I must say, he's very difficult to work with."

Lestrade, of course, had no idea that Rose and Mickey had grown up knowing the name of Sherlock Holmes, the most famous detective of all time, and a fictional one. Rose had even read most of the stories, well, listened to them as the Doctor, first with his prickly Northern burr and then with the smooth, light London tongue, read to her out loud. Finding out that there was a real, twenty-first century Sherlock Holmes in Pete's world had been, by turns, hilarious and exhilarating. Rose even followed John Watson's blog.

Grin still in place, Rose turned back to the DI. "Thanks, Lestrade. We'll take it from here."

An hour later, Lestrade was still puzzling over why the two incredibly high ranking investigators would be bickering like children over who got to talk to Sherlock Holmes. His own staff tried to avoid the man as much as possible. He didn't blame them, even if Sherlock had gotten easier to deal with once Dr. Watson was around. He shook his head and refocused on a case that just came in.

Rose won the argument. Mickey sulked the rest of the way back to Torchwood.

The meeting with Sherlock Holmes took preparation. From reading Watson's blog, Rose knew, without a doubt, that Sherlock was brilliant. More brilliant than just about anyone around him. Possibly a savant, she thought as she picked through her wardrobe. Anything she wore, said, did, and possibly smelled like would be analyzed by the consulting detective. Torchwood was still a secret military organization, though Pete was pushing in the senate to have it declassified. The old order was leaving, but it was a slow process. To account for that, they'd devised a lengthy pile of paperwork to hand over to Scotland Yard when a case was alien. That same pile wouldn't work for Holmes. All the papers going to the same person wouldn't form a coherent whole. She sighed. Hopefully Pete would have that aspect worked out soon. In any case, she would be playing the part of an average office girl. Rose bit her lip in a half a smile. Meeting Sherlock Holmes. The Doctor would have loved it. No, she reminded herself. She was moving on. Moving forward, at least.

Rose checked her email as she fastened her earrings. Pete had finished their cover story. The paper ordering Sherlock Holmes to cease and desist in his pursuit of the case was signed by several people in high positions of power, citing national security. Sufficiently vague, but still authoritative. Personally, Rose thought it would take a good deal more than a slip of paper to convince Mr. Holmes to stop a case, regardless of who signed it. Hell, she figured Sherlock would probably ask why and thumb his nose if it was signed 'God'. But it was a start.

Rose took the tube from her flat. She was glad the floppy, broad brimmed, veiled hats of the 1940's had recently come back into style in Pete's world. They were an easy way for her to pass anonymously through the town. The Baker Street Station was different in this universe. Rose remembered using the station back home once or twice. The walls there were dotted by mosaics of the pipe-smoking, hat-wearing, silhouette of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. In this universe, there was no call for that. The tube station at Baker Street was white walled and plain. She inspected her reflection one last time in the glossy brass numbers of 221B and knocked.

"Hello." Rose greeted the small, older woman who answered the door. "I've come to see Sherlock Holmes, is he in?" Rose buried her cockney accent in a posh one that Pete's PR department insisted she learn.

The woman, Rose assumed she was Mrs. Hudson, nodded and ushered her in. "Yes, of course dear. Come in out of the cold."

Mrs. Hudson led the way up the stairs. "What is it you're wanting to see Sherlock about, dear?"

Rose smiled softly out of the shadows of her hat. "I'm afraid it's rather private."

"Oh, of course. Never mind about me then." Mrs. Hudson flapped a hand at the girl before rapping sharply on the door. "Sherlock? John?" She called.

"Come in." Came the imperious reply.

"I'll just go make some tea then." Mrs. Hudson said, "The boys never have anything. You just go on in."

"Thank you, you're very kind." Rose said. She turned the knob to the famous flat with butterflies tumbling in her stomach. But the good kind of butterflies.

Two men sat in opposing chairs opposite the fireplace as she walked in. She had a split second to read both of them before they realized she wasn't their kindly landlady. John Watson was a small man with a kind of rugged weariness etched across his face. The face of a man who had seen too much. Sherlock Holmes was not how she expected. His angular cheekbones were overshadowed by intense blue eyes. He was also a good deal younger than she anticipated. Nevertheless, the moment his pale eyes turned towards her, Rose was ready. The Game is on, she thought.

Rose pulled off her hat. "Hello, Mr. Holmes. My name is-"

"Rose Tyler." Sherlock interrupted. "Daughter of Pete Tyler, the CEO of the Vitex Corporation, and Jackie Tyler."

Rose raised an eyebrow. Difficult, Lestrade said. He wasn't kidding. "Bravo, Mr. Holmes, but hardly a difficult deduction. My face is not a secret in this city." The gossip rags and tabloids had made sure of that. She did her best to stay out of them, but the large parties and galas she attended with her parents were overrun with paparazzi.

From the other corner of the room, Dr. Watson sighed. "Please, Miss Tyler, have a seat."

Rose smiled at him. "Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"You read John's blog." Sherlock said as Rose took a seat in the much spindlier chair the detective clearly used for seeing clients.

"A bit," Rose admitted with a short laugh, "I find it incredibly…" Well, she was going to say brilliant, but she couldn't indulge the smug look radiating off the man, "interesting."

"And why is that, Miss Tyler?" Sherlock leaned forward.

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock, for all he loved attention, drama, and the spotlight, loathed fans. For her sake, John hoped Rose Tyler, the darling of corporate Britain, wasn't one of them.

Rose focused on her accent, masking the south London. "Well, it's fascinating, isn't it? Just how much the average human being ignores. I mean, it isn't as though you've got much better eyesight than the rest of us, or superhuman smell. But all those little things the rest of us discount, your brain puts them together like a puzzle. I don't think you can help it."

John, if he hadn't been leaning back in an armchair, might have fallen out of his chair at her answer. It was certainly much better than Sherlock had expected, from the abrupt raising of the detective's eyebrows and the lines that appeared around his mouth, as they always did when he contemplated something.

"You think you're so impressive." The blond girl continued.

Sherlock frowned. "I am impressive." His voice was pouty.

Rose half raised a hand to touch the key hanging on a chain below her blouse as she remembered the same exchange with another man. She covered the movement by tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. In truth, she almost felt let down. She had expected Sherlock to be more like the Doctor. Though the brilliance was there, she could see little of the compassion the Doctor possessed. Oh, he may be fond of specific people, but Sherlock Holmes didn't love the human race like the Doctor.

"Should you like proof, Miss Tyler?" Sherlock asked, a note of steel buried in his tone.

Rose fought a grin. He was like a little kid on a playground being told he couldn't climb to the highest bit of the jungle gym. He just had to prove it. It was a trait that would probably get him in trouble someday. "If you'd like." She had been waiting for this.

"Your story is well known. You went to school away from London to get clear of the social backstabbing as you father's company advanced. But it did more than that. You spent more time with your mother than your father growing up. In photos you always stand closer to her than to him. After the scare with your mother's disappearance, you came back to London to spend more time with her, and your new baby brother, of whom you are very fond. You finished your education here then went to work for your father's company. It wasn't just his influence that got you the job though, you're good at what you do, at least you think so, you're proud of your work. You wear heels regularly, which means you aren't on your feet all day, so you work at a desk. You are most likely involved in the accounting department. The nails on your right hand are slightly shorter than those on your left and the fingertips slightly more calloused, indicating that you use the number pad on a keyboard frequently. Your job pays well. You don't have to work but you're too proud to take any more money from your parents and your clothes are custom fitted and high quality. You were born right as the Vitex corporation took off. You don't remember poverty but your parents do. Your father is making efforts to spend more time with you. The earrings you wear are from him. The celebrity magazines have never linked you to anyone romantically, and they tend to do that at the slightest provocation. You have friends, but you have almost no time to see them. You have no interest currently in forming a romantic relationship as you are entirely focused on your work. And, though you were excited to see me based on John's blog, you have come on business. You have a case for me." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, at the end of the diatribe.

Rose smiled faintly. Perhaps she had given him more credit for his cleverness than was due.

"Well?" The detective demanded. "Am I right?"

John, too, was surprised by her lack of reaction. Most of the time when Sherlock did a cold read on someone, he or she was nearly floored by the results.

"About very little." Rose assured him. "But you were right on one, applicable point. I am here on business. However, I'm here about a case you already have."

John was certain he had never seen Sherlock frown so intensely. Some of what Sherlock said was in line with what John had observed and all seemed sensible. But Miss Tyler was talking again.

"The killing of Emmett Wilkes. You're off the case." Rose said. She pulled a paper from the small handbag she carried and handed it to Sherlock.

John frowned. "The guy with two big holes in the back of his neck and the poison no one can identify?" He asked.

Rose nodded.

Sherlock didn't even glance at the paper she handed him. "I was hired for this case by Detective Inspector Lestrade. I will stop when he tells me to."

John snorted. He doubted that.

Sherlock's attention was focused solely on the blond woman in front of him. How was it she had the authority to tell him when to stop investigating?

"Greg Lestrade is also off this case. He suggested that it might be difficult to talk you out of stopping your investigation. However, I must insist that you do. Do take a look at that order. Now, I bid you good day, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." Rose stood, rearranged her blazer, and set her hat back on her head. She sailed out through the door, remembering as she took her first step to add a sway to her walk in order to hide her soldier stance, just as Mrs. Hudson prepared to walk through it, a tea tray balanced on one hand.

"You're not going to give up the case, are you?" John asked when Rose Tyler had left the flat.

Sherlock gave him a look. "No."

"And Rose Tyler doesn't work for Vitex."

"No."

"What does the paper say?"

Sherlock tossed it at him. John whistled. "Sherlock! This is signed by the minister of defense! If you ignore it, you could be charged with treason!"

"Which is why I didn't read it. Don't tell me what it says either!" Sherlock demanded as John opened his mouth.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. Bloody, bloody hell." John huffed, then looked over at his friend. "Alright, I'm in. What do we do?"

"Sherlock, that body has been gone for the past two days." Molly Hooper told the detective cautiously. "They said it was a biohazard and that the case was closed."

"And you let them take it? I was working on that." Sherlock growled. He'd spent a day and a half poking around in the mess Rose Tyler left behind and had nothing to show for it.

"The world doesn't revolve around you, Sherlock Holmes!" Molly snapped back. "They had all the proper paperwork and more."

"Sherlock," John stepped between his friends, "You've already got samples from the body. It's not Molly's fault."

Sherlock Holmes wheeled and stormed from the room.

"John, what's going on?" Molly asked.

"He doesn't know, and I almost prefer it when he's bored."

John found Sherlock back at their flat, studying a slide under the microscope. He didn't bother trying to talk to the man, merely went to bed.

"So we're sure it's an acromantula?"

Rose groaned, "That's not what they're called, Mickey." She admonished, back in her cockney that matched his.

Her best friend grinned back at her. "I know."

In a universe where the Harry Potter books were never written, it was a joke only the two of them understood. Despite the occasional run-ins both of them had with the species of sentient, spider-like aliens, Mickey insisted on calling them Acromantula. It was, Rose had to admit, easier to pronounce than the name their species gave itself, which involved a long string of clicking sounds. Most of the other Torchwood agents had picked up on the nickname too, to Rose's dismay. That would not help interplanetary diplomacy. Not that the ones that had come to Earth were at all interested in diplomacy. They considered themselves higher beings, and the humans were just food stuffs.

"We're not sure." Rose said. "The bite pattern is consistent with the ones we've seen before, but the body wasn't drained for food. The neighbor found him dead only a minute after hearing a scream though, so there may not have been time. Owen's checking the venom."

"But probably." Mickey moved from the doorway to sit on Rose's desk.

"Probably." Rose agreed. She shuffled through all the pages Lestrade had put together on the case.

"Man, perks of being the boss's daughter. Howcome your view is so much better than mine?"

Rose stuck her tongue out at him. His office was one door down. She'd been back at Torchwood for almost two years and Mickey was still joking around trying to make sure she wouldn't go on suicide missions again.

"Any reason you're in my office?" Rose asked.

"Bored." Mickey said.

Rose grinned. "Bet you have a fat stack of forms to fill out."

Mickey made a face.

Rose laughed softly. "Go on then, get." She shoved him off her desk. He pretended to stagger out the door.

"Some friend you are!"

"Yeah, yeah." Rose went back to reading the files from Lestrade, one hand absently twisting the key on its chain around her neck. By the time evening rolled around, Rose had a fair idea of where to find the creature. With her team, plus Mickey, in tow, they set out into the London darkness.

An hour later, they were all sweaty and exhausted but uninjured. The same couldn't be said for the alien, which had readily admitted to killing not only Emmett Wilkes, but also half a dozen others that weren't found. The alien, who gave his name as 'Axtxatlcrx the conqueror', refused to either submit to Earth's judgment or leave. In the skirmish that followed, a member of Rose's team had taken a kill shot as the alien was about to take a bite out of Mickey. The seven of them sat glumly on a curb outside the abandoned estate housing where the creature had holed up as they waited for the clean-up team.

"Well. That was exciting." Brennan said.

"Yup." Eliza agreed.

When John Watson rose the next morning, Sherlock didn't appear to have moved, though the table around his microscope was strewn with looked like the wrappers of nicotine patches.

"If you're getting nowhere with the clues you've got, why not find more?" John asked. He pushed past the cadaver parts in the fridge to find milk for his coffee.

"What?" Came the curt reply.

"I mean, it seems like you've got at least one place to start. Rose Tyler seems to know a lot about the case."

Sherlock stood and pulled his coat around his shoulders with his characteristic drama. "I'll be back late."

Five hours later, Sherlock was starting to regret that decision. He'd been prowling downtown London all morning looking for some trace of the Vitex heiress. Starting with the Vitex headquarters, he staked out places he thought she might frequent. Based on the lack of splashes on her neat, gray slacks when she'd appeared at his flat, he deduced that she must have taken the tube to Baker Street. So next he installed himself in the underground at Moorgate. He waited nearly all day there, sitting on a hard bench and pretending to read a paper while he inspected the passerby. Though in the process of sleuthing, the great Sherlock found himself bored as the evening commute traffic thinned out. There had been only false promises of the petite blonde in designer suits. Deciding to follow up on the only clue that he had from examining the victim, that Emmett Wilkes frequented Hyde Park, he abandoned his post.

Stepping off the platform two trains later, Sherlock's impressive mind began calculating the statistical chance that allowed him to catch a glimpse of the elusive heiress as she too climbed the stairs into the brisk, damp night air. Drawing as little attention as possible, he weaved through the crowd quickly, keeping a close eye on Rose Tyler.

Half a block after leaving the underground station, Rose felt the telltale prickle on the back of her neck. After spending the few preceding years dodging the press, Rose had developed an uncanny knack for knowing when she was being followed. She checked the side mirror of a parked car and quickly spotted her tail. Sherlock Holmes. She wasn't sure whether to be pleased or dismayed. He wouldn't learn anything from following her, Rose was too good for that, but it might draw more attention than she wanted.

Sherlock Holmes stood on the pavement outside a café with his thoughts racing. He'd watched Miss Tyler enter the building, tracked her movement through the line to order her drink, then lost her in a moment as she walked past a chatting couple. Throwing out caution in order to satisfy his curiosity, he ducked into the crowded café. As subtly as he could, under the pretense of reading the chalkboard menu, he glanced around the shop. Miss Tyler was nowhere to be seen.

"Mr. Holmes?" The barista called out.

Sherlock jumped. He pressed through the mob to the counter. He was rewarded with a steaming cup of coffee: black, just how he liked it, and a note.

_Nice try._ It read.

Sherlock bolted out of the shop, slopping coffee on his hand, though he didn't notice. He searched up the street both directions but saw no sign of the vanishing woman.

John, on discovering his flatmate home again, decided not to ask about the empty coffee cup and the note taped to it.

Sherlock stared at the coffee cup for two hours as he attempted to explain Rose Tyler to himself. She didn't make any sense. He was getting the sinking feeling that she had intentionally played him during their first encounter. The clues she left were subtle, those who attempted to fool usually did so by adding too much.

_Am I right?_

_Traces of a smirk played around the corners of her wide mouth. About very little, she said._

The question, of course, was which parts of his theory were correct. His final, silent act of desperation was a short text message to his brother, Mycroft. Mycroft knew everything that happened in the People's Republic of Great Britain.

_Who is Rose Tyler?_

But Mycroft, usually punctual with any communication with Sherlock, did not reply.

Half an hour later, as Sherlock was violently playing his violin, a sharp knock sounded on the door. John had to answer the door, as Sherlock refused to pause his practicing.

"Mycroft?" John stepped back, startled, as the older man strode into the room.

"Tell me." Mycroft demanded of his brother.

The violin came to a screeching halt. "You didn't reply." Sherlock said.

"I came instead."

"Which means it's very important."

Mycroft gave a little sigh. "Just tell me what happened."

"I was working. I had a case. Then Miss Tyler stopped by the flat and told me I was off the case. No explanation. Then when I tried tailing her, she lost me. She left a note." Sherlock spat. "Who is she?"

"Not someone to be trifled with. Sherlock, if you ever listen to anything I say, listen now. Leave. This. Alone."

"It was my case." Sherlock ground out.

"The case will be solved, if it isn't already."

Sherlock opened his mouth again, but Mycroft cut him off.

"Leave it, William. Or the response could be devastating." Mycroft left the flat at 221B Baker Street having not even stayed long enough for tea to brew.

Director Pete Tyler of Torchwood got a call early the next morning. Hanging up the phone, he sighed, then paged his almost-daughter.

"Rose, why did you go see Sherlock Holmes?"

"Because we needed to tell him to stop investigating the case."

"And you gave him an even more exciting one. He's investigating you, now."

Rose fidgeted. It was never easy being taken to task by a boss, but since it was her dad, it was even harder.

"Anyone else could have talked to him, but you decided to go personally." Pete continued.

"Actually, I had to fight Mickey for it." Rose said.

"What? Why?"

"Because it's Sherlock Holmes! He's famous in my world. Well, and fictional. He's the D- I mean, one of my favorite characters."

Pete wanted to hug away the stricken, lonely look on his daughter's face at her slip. It was an unspoken rule that none of them mentioned the Doctor, though they all knew that Rose thought about him most of the time. But they were at work and he stayed professional. "Then this is your mess, clean it up."

"Yes, sir." Rose said.

The problem turned itself over in the back of her head for the rest of the day. When she left the office, she had a plan.

The first thing John noticed when he unlocked the door to 221B was that the flat smelled faintly of freshly brewed tea. He stood for a moment attempting to puzzle out why that might be. Sherlock dispensed with the puzzling and flicked on the lights. Sitting in Sherlock's chair by the fire and sipping tea from John's second favorite mug, was Rose Tyler.

It took John another few seconds to realize it was Rose Tyler, as she looked different from the first time he met her. The well cut slacks and blazer were gone, replaced by heavy black pants and a clingy, long sleeved gray top made of an athletic material, like a footballer might wear under his jersey on a cold day. The patent leather heels morphed into sturdy shoes, John couldn't tell if they were boots or shoes. The shiny, blond updo was gone too. This Rose wore her hair pulled sternly back from her face in a ponytail, though exertions had pulled tendrils loose to form a golden halo around her head. The biggest change though, was in her face. The calm, mild expression that graced the perfectly lined eyes edged with mascara and the gentle smile framed by softly colored lips were gone. The unadorned eyes were fierce and intent, rivalling, and perhaps surpassing, Sherlock's. Her full mouth was set stubbornly. John found a growing need to salute building inside.

"Miss Tyler." Sherlock's voice was steel outside in the depths of a Nordic winter.

"Mr. Holmes." Rose's voice was equally chilly. She deliberately set down her mug on a saucer on the end table before standing. For a small woman, she had enormous presence. "Due to your unfortunate lack of cooperation, I am here a second time, in rather less genial circumstances."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock replied.

"Oh, so you can't explain why I have pictures of you and Dr. Watson breaking into a crime scene for a case you were removed from?" She tossed a handful of photos onto the floor between them.

"It was my case." Sherlock said.

"Emphasis on the past tense. The case has been solved."

"Oh? Tell me, who killed Emmett Wilkes? And when is the trial?"

"I believe the term used in the paperwork was that, after a full confession, he showed no signs of remorse and resisted arrest."

"What do you know of the poison?"

"It is a naturally occurring chemical from the killer's home country which hasn't been studied extensively. And that, Mr. Holmes is all the closure you're gonna get. Now, I would like for you to stop investigating."

"I don't find myself satisfied with your answers, Miss Tyler."

"That's too bad. Remember that order I gave you last time?"

"I didn't read it."

"But Dr. Watson did. Which makes him complicit in this. So if you don't stop investigating, the good doctor will be arrested on charges of treason."

Sherlock remained impassive for a long moment. "Very well." He grudgingly admitted.

"Good. Have a lovely evening. There's more tea on the table." Rose flashed a brief, tight smile. Then she slid open the window and jumped clear of the second story flat.

John, rushing to the window after her, saw no trace of her in the night.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: Thank you all for the lovely response to this story. I kinda lied, there will also be an epilogue. One more bit to go. This portion takes place just before the start of BW&LM._

**Disclaimer: Not mine, don't own. Cool beans.**

Over the coming months, Sherlock had little time to think about Rose Tyler. When he did, he mused that the most likely scenario was that she was MI6 but something still didn't fit. He still turned his head in the tube when small, blond women walked past, but none of them were Miss Tyler. It was a while before he saw her again, and it wasn't in a manner anyone could forget.

Sherlock was, as much as he would deny it, enjoying being on the stand to put Moriarty behind bars for good. Not that he really thought it would work, Moriarty engineered the whole thing, but he, Sherlock Holmes, would do his best. The young barrister was mucking things up, but Sherlock thought it was going rather well. He was about to prove his abilities by reading the jury when a secretary from the courthouse jogged up to the judge to whisper in his ear. Sherlock paused to examine the newcomer. The young man was worried and hurried. The expression on the judge's face changed rapidly as the secretary passed on his message. Consternation gave way to confusion, followed by surprise, then resignation before the judge's impartial mask dropped back into place. He nodded and the young man trotted over to whisper to the prosecutorial barrister.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you are not a witness, barrister, or member of the jury, I must ask you to leave the courtroom. This portion of the trial is closed." The judge announced.

Sherlock looked up at John, sitting in the balcony, as his friend stood to leave the chamber. The room was full at the start of the trial, the trial of the century, many called it. Some of the journalists fussed about their expulsion, but they were firmly guided out by security. Kitty Riley, Sherlock noticed, flounced out looking chagrined. Moments later, John was ushered back into the courtroom. The doctor sat awkwardly in one of the recently emptied benches. He tucked his hands under his legs and glanced around the room. Sherlock, too, examined the room but found no evidence for the expulsion.

The judge stood. "Those present please rise and raise your right hand. Please repeat the oath after me. For the protection of this nation, the Peoples' Republic of Great Britain, I do swear to keep secret that which is disclosed and discussed in this room."

The jury, gathered witnesses, and barristers shambled through the oath with stumbling tongues.

"Mr. Moriarty, if you do not take this oath, you will be removed from the court proceedings. Also, I would like to mention that the breaking of this oath will not result in a second trial, merely the immediate incarceration and a possible military tribunal." The judge said.

Moriarty did his best to remain neutral, but Sherlock could see both curiosity and panic growing on the man's face. Sherlock smirked. Finally, it seemed something was going differently from how Moriarty had planned. The consulting criminal flashed a look at the consulting detective before gritting his teeth and pledging to keep everything a secret. The judge nodded someone in the shadow of an alcove.

The woman who strode out of the shadow walked with a kind of graceful precision. Every movement counted. Her hair was tucked into a dark gray beret edged with a dark blue that matched the dark blue belt cinching in her black, formal, military coat. A small coat of arms insignia pinned on the beret matched the buckle of the belt. The front piece of the coat was covered in medals of valor. Sherlock would have to see if John recognized any of them later. Though Sherlock was no military expert, he didn't think that uniform was a common one. The woman came to a halt in front of Sherlock, facing the judge.

"Please state your name and title for the record." The prosecuting barrister said, shuffling papers around.

"Rose Marion Tyler, Captain of Torchwood team Echo."

Sherlock almost fell off the witness stand.

"Mr. Holmes, you may take a seat." The judge told him.

His mind was racing as he walked to the bench where John sat. Torchwood. If you listened closely to the city of London, you heard whispers of Torchwood, in hushed, cautious tones. If something strange happened, the whispers followed. About four months earlier, the media jumped on a change of Torchwood's website, where they quietly proclaimed being a branch of the government of the Peoples' Republic of Great Britain for the protection of its peoples and the greater whole of humanity. No mention was made of how, exactly, this worked.

"Do- do you have some relevant evidence related to this case, Captain Tyler?" The prosecuting barrister stammered.

The woman on the stand gave her a warm smile. "Yes, I do. I apologize for not presenting it earlier; certain… technicalities had to be cleared first."

Sherlock, followed by John, skittered quietly around the edge of the nearly silent room to a place where they could watch Miss- no, Captain- Tyler's face as she spoke.

"The Torchwood Institute, commonly known as simply 'Torchwood' was founded in 1879 after the death of Queen Victoria at a manor house of the same name, thus marking the end of the monarchy. The purpose of the institute was to protect Great Britain and its people from threats which traditional military could not face. It has done so in relative secrecy since that time, though legislation is in progress to declassify certain parts of Torchwood.

"Several months ago, there was an attempted security breach in the Torchwood mainframe, an event which we have now been able to link to the computer owned by James Moriarty.

"I believe the security camera footage from the Tower of London was shown as part of this trial. I shall now ask you to view it again." She dug a small device and pointed it at the large monitor in the corner of the room. The screen flickered on and the video began to play. Captain Tyler let it run uninterrupted for some time before pausing it. "Now," she said to the jury, "I should like you to focus your attention on the buttons Mr. Moriarty presses."

Moriarty, in the back of the room, was no longer impartial. Instead, his face was twisted in a snarl.

She ran the tape and everyone watched as Moriarty pushed not three, but four applications on his phone.

"No one saw it, because no one was looking for it. Not even Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Captain Tyler said, smirking briefly at the detective. "But in fact, the day before this incident, an agent of the Torchwood Institute contacted me. He had been approached by a man he did not know and offered a sizable amount of money to help said man break into Torchwood. The agent was warned that others would also be breaking into Torchwood and he would be watched and if he didn't do as the man wanted, there would be consequences. Whether there were others is questionable, however, with the warning we were able to change internal security protocols during the critical time period and nothing happened. We did not know that other locations would be targeted.

"Torchwood houses some of the Republic's most dangerous science and weaponry; therefore all security threats are taken seriously and investigated. We have run our own investigation into James Moriarty and discovered a few dangerous things. One, his intention was to end up in this room. Two, he has threatened every member of this jury. And three, he is plotting the libel and death of Sherlock Holmes. On the second front, the members of the jury and their families have been tasked to Torchwood agents who will prevent harm from befalling them. This is to enable them to make the right decision without pressure.

"Mr. Holmes was right about a few things with regard to Mr. Moriarty, he is a consulting criminal, and he is a spider. Oh, it is a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive." Captain Tyler glanced around at the confused faces of her audience, "No? Not a saying here? Right. Well then, through the information provided by our agent, it became clear that Mr. Moriarty's incredible acts of hacking were not such. They were timed, orchestrated events with multiple people involved. He has been running a very large scam."

Rose rocked back on her heels as her words sank in. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Moriarty glaring at her, his composure gone, and fear rising on his pale face. She fielded the questions presented by the judge and barrister, called in Brennan to relate his tale directly, and provided all the documentation they had on the attempted breaches. Rose was only released at the close of the day. Brennan left first and texted Rose, letting her know that the main hallway was empty of reporters. With the straight back and brisk step that her dress uniform required, Rose walked out of the courtroom.

Lurking, though, outside the exit from the room, was Sherlock Holmes. Of course Dr. John Watson was there too.

"Captain Tyler." The detective said.

"Please, call me Rose." She sighed. She really did hate it when people used her title.

John raised his eyebrows.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

"I underestimated you before, Miss Tyler, but I still have some questions."

"Of course you do." She muttered. "Can we go somewhere else? My feet are killing me."

Mr. Holmes inclined his head in acceptance.

"Great. Meet me out front in five minutes." Rose slipped away to a loo to change out of her uniform. Though they appeared to be made out of wool, the coat and trousers were made of a fabric derived from alien tech. The properties of the material were controlled through electrical impulses. Rose cut of the signal and the fabric was suddenly easy to pack down into a small satchel she slung across her shoulder before heading out.

Sherlock Holmes was silent, though Rose got the feeling that the proper word might be taciturn, as John steered them towards a café, which left it up to Rose and John to make small talk.

Once seated in a booth in the back of a small tearoom, Sherlock began his interrogation.

"Do you really believe all those people will keep their oath?" He started abruptly.

Rose ran a hand back through her hair. "No. But most of them are sequestered until the trial is over. Once it's done… Torchwood has developed a drug which alters selected memories. They'll forget I was there, that Torchwood was involved, their minds will come up with another story to fill in the blank. We just have to wait until the verdict is passed."

Dr. Watson bristled. "You can't just do that to people! Take away their memories like that."

Rose turned to look at him directly. The weight of the decisions she made was heavy in her eyes along with a deep solemnity and a staggering intensity. He shifted uneasily under her stare.

"It was the only way. Torchwood is dangerous. Knowledge of Torchwood is dangerous. Not to mention forbidden. It was the only way to get the government to allow us to intervene in the case. Elsewise, Moriarty would win."

John looked away. "Then at least I should have stayed out of the room."

Rose smiled slightly. "I asked for you to be there."

"What?" John's mouth dropped open.

"I knew Mr. Holmes would tell you what happened, regardless of the oath, so I figured you might as well be in the room. Besides," she sipped on her tea, "Torchwood has instructions not to wipe your memories."

"And why is that?" Sherlock interjected.

One corner of Rose's wide mouth twitched. "For some- god knows what- reason, I trust you."

"Thank you, I think." Dr. Watson muttered.

"Was he really planning my death?"

"Mr. Holmes, I didn't spend the last month trying to get permission to go to that trial to tell lies."

"What does Torchwood do?"

Rose just gave him a look. "I think this conversation is over." She stood and wrapped her coat around her shoulders again.

Sherlock placed one hand over hers on the smooth, warm surface of the wooden table. Their eyes met to fight a nonverbal battle.

"One day, Miss Tyler, I will discover all your secrets."

Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "If you figure out even half my secrets," Rose said in her own, natural cockney accent, "I'd be very impressed."

It was a victory in some ways. Moriarty was found guilty and imprisoned behind the very bars he'd opened. At least, he was until Torchwood moved him to a more secure facility. But, shortly following the trial, Kitty Riley published an article that had Rose standing in front of her father's desk again. The obnoxiously persistent reporter had evidently remained hidden in an alcove outside the courtroom as Rose left the trial. The story went viral, despite protestations from all those present in the room that Rose had never set foot in the trial. Her secret was out, Rose Tyler was a Torchwood agent.


	3. Epilogue

_Author's Note: Alright, final part of this story. It takes place after the start of BW&LM, I'm sure you'll able to place it. There's that plot bunny dead! Enjoy._

**Disclaimer: Not mine, don't own.**

Rose hopped to Hyde Park for one last, solitary ramble in the green space before she left. She had a feeling that the peace and quiet would be something of a mystery for a while, what with all the Doctor saving she had to do. She only made it a few steps into the park, gently lit by a golden, fading sunset, before she heard her name called out.

"Miss Tyler?" The voice was curious and imperious, a tone only one person she knew could make.

Rose focused her eyes on Sherlock Holmes. He stood beside John Watson in the growing dusk and stared at her with frank intensity.

"Mr. Holmes." She replied with a smile. The Doctor, when she made it back to him, would love to hear about the real life adventures of Sherlock Holmes. She walked merrily over to the pair of men and leaned on the rail next to them. "Beautiful evening, isn't it? I've never quite gotten used to the way the sun reflects on the zeppelins."

Sherlock studied her. "You're different, something's changed."

Rose laughed. Yes, the whole shape of the world seemed to have changed since she'd last spoken with the detective.

"Do you wear contacts?" Mr. Holmes asked.

"What?" Rose's forehead scrunched up as she tried to piece together where he was going with that. "No, perfect eyesight, me."

"Your eyes are a different color."

Rose stilled. That was true enough. Since unlocking the heart of the Tardis in her mind, the deep brown of her eyes had been lightening to a shade rather closer to gold. "They do that." She said finally.

"And," Dr. Watson broke in, "You're happier."

"Give the man a medal." Rose gave him a grin instead, her tongue caught between her teeth. "Can I just say, I loved it, meeting you two. It's been really, really brilliant."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Where did you come from?"

"What?"

"I was looking down that road. One moment you weren't there, the next moment you were."

Rose bit her lower lip. "Well, you're not exactly known for being perceptive."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply acidly before her recognized the glint in the corner of her eye. She was teasing him. His mouth stayed open.

"Don't you forget me, Sherlock Holmes." She straightened once more and walked into the park. Over one shoulder, she threw out a goodbye to the stunned men.

It was a few weeks before the papers realized they hadn't seen Rose Tyler for a while. The Vitex heiress was so good at avoiding the paparazzi that at first it didn't seem she was gone at all. Then the headlines hit. Sherlock spread out copies of the tabloids running the stories and studied them. _Rose Tyler, Vanished Again?_, _Where Is She Now?_, _Done a Bunk?_, _Gone-with-the-Wind_ _Tyler Gone Again_. Unlike the preceding few times this had happened, the young blond hadn't reappeared after a few days. She was absent from the political galas and social functions that appeared on the covers of glossy magazines next to the checkouts. And Sherlock, though curious as ever, found himself unsurprised. The tone of her voice the last time she spoke with him, it had been saying goodbye. The Tylers, when asked, replied that their daughter was traveling abroad. An anonymous source inside Torchwood confided to the papers that Rose had resigned and it was 'the biggest shock any of them ever had'. Still, the conspiracy theories abounded. There were those who held she'd been kidnapped by aliens, others that she was kidnapped by business rivals. A few people believed Pete and Jackie discovered she wasn't really their daughter and had her relocated, or even killed.

Sherlock, who was doing his best to stop making any guesses about Rose Tyler, knew that it was voluntary. She was gone and she was happy about it.

Two years later, with no one any the wiser about where Rose Tyler was, Britain was rocked by the disappearance of the entire Tyler family and, though he didn't get as much publicity, Richard 'Mickey' Smith, a noted good friend of the family's. Lestrade actually called Sherlock in to consult on the case. It was high profile, as many were calling for Pete Tyler to run for president. The results were that no foul play was suspected, but no one knew where they were, either. Sherlock even checked with Mycroft, who assured his brother that none of the Tylers left the country by any legal means. The Tylers' finances had been reduced in the last few months leading to their disappearance; they'd purchased a number of high end paintings, none of which were found. Sherlock noted a number of other things missing as well. Many photo frames hung empty on the walls, closets and dressers were half full, and there was a distinct lack of toys in young Tony's room. The last will and testament of Peter and Jaqueline Tyler had been modified only months before. Should something happen to the entire family, it read, Jacob Simmons was to act as the executor of the estate. Aside from a substantial provision for him, the remainder of the Tyler family fortune was to go to inner city youth to help further their education. Sherlock strongly suspected that Simmons, who rose in Torchwood ranks again after Pete's absence from the director position, knew more than he was saying about the situation. He did find, however, that Rose Tyler had been back to visit only a few weeks before the rest of the family disappeared. Jackie hosted a party and he found a few of the guests that would talk to him.

"She looked tired, like exhausted, and too thin, but happy. So happy." One woman told him.

Five years later, Sherlock stopped outside a bookstore window. He left the store with a book under his arm and returned to his flat, forgetting entirely the case that brought him outside in the first place. The picture on the front cover was of a laughing, honey-eyed blond girl with a redheaded boy on her lap and their parents leaning in around them. _A History of Britain's Favorite Family_ by Lucy Miller, Torchwood Agent.

It had been a trying five years for planet earth. Enough foiled invasions and attacks from extraterrestrials had been sufficiently visible for all but the ostriches, with their heads stuck in the sand, to admit the existence of aliens. Torchwood grew more public and prevalent as the years went on. Reading it, Sherlock learned that the move to bring Torchwood into the open was due to Pete Tyler's pushing. The man seemed a saint, according to the book.

Growling, Sherlock checked the table of contents and discovered that Rose didn't even appear until halfway through the history.

Hours later, Sherlock was forced to conclude that no one would ever give him enough information to discover Rose Tyler's secrets. Though it went contrary to every fiber of his insatiably curious being, he was oddly fine with that.


End file.
